Becoming the Wind

Azha wiped the scratch on his cheek, his fingers trembling as he saw blood staining his skin.

"You... were you never taught manners...?" he said, voice shaking—trying to sound angry, though it came off more like a whining child.

But Yurelia gave no room for petty complaints.

Calmly, she stepped forward half a pace. Left foot in front, right foot behind. Both hands gripped her sword hilt, pulling it up to shoulder level. Her sharp eyes stared directly—her blade’s tip aimed straight at Azha’s nose.

"If you still want to keep talking, I’ll give you more wounds to lecture me with," she said softly, with a sweet smile that felt like a knife to the throat.

Azha stepped back, holding his breath. "W-Wait! At least let me take some distance. This is too close."

Yurelia sighed and lowered her stance. "Go ahead."

Azha quickly backed away, trying to appear composed though his steps nearly stumbled.

Once he reached what he considered a safe distance, he raised a hand and declared, "Come forth, my partner! Blazeen, Flame Spirit of the Young Warrior!"

From the air appeared a small fireball, the size of an apple. Its eyes were wide and stern, brows furrowed as if always angry. It had no mouth, only a blazing body with rotating flames surrounding it slowly.

"This is my spirit, Blazeen!" Azha said proudly, striking a pose.